


by 11

by sunflower_8



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Depression, Eating Disorders, Emetophobia, Hurt No Comfort, Hypomania, M/M, Medicine, Mental Health Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, one line abt alcohol nd mentioned sexual abuse, overdose implications kinda, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:00:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27963416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflower_8/pseuds/sunflower_8
Summary: komaeda is in the air again.it happens, sometimes.(komaeda's experiences with hypomania and subsequent depression)
Relationships: Hinata Hajime/Komaeda Nagito
Comments: 3
Kudos: 105





	by 11

komaeda is in the air again. 

it happens, sometimes. 

not in the air like planes, though. not like birds with dappled wings or dragonflies, not like smoke or fires, as a matter of fact, not like the flying things. not like evaporated water, either, or a child just off a trampoline (or maybe just like a child, he hears that sometimes), nothing like that. not up in the air like a physical thing, like physics itself or the normal force dissolved into whatever in the topic he never cared for in school, nothing like that.

he’s up in the air like a feeling, the way his chest soars so far up that he can’t bring it down, taking his beaten and beating heart with it, taking his hands and his eyes and his head and  _ everything, _ soaring up and up and up. how his stomach shrinks and then gets bigger, how his limbs move without his command, how his head feels fuzzy and prefrontal cortexes be damned. 

something like that, and it happens sometimes.

it doesn’t get him for long. it’s maybe an hour, an hour of standing up and almost falling down, over and over. he gets up and looks at himself in the mirror, takes his second pill for the day on accident (but it’s okay, it’s 1 am, he just hasn’t noticed yet), lays down on the floor giggling and crying for hours. it’s an hour like that, where everything is shifted, where he spends

_ forty five. fucking. minutes.  _

trying to explain to his boyfriend how he reminds him of wildflowers, before crying over the wildflowers, before asking if he has alcohol (he’s 17) or asking if they can have sex (he’s 17, even younger in the dreams) or asking all of those worthless things. favorite things. 

and when he’s up, up, up, nothing matters to him. the classes he’s failing because he can’t go, doesn’t want to, doesn’t see the point in that, all stare at him with lowering marks, but he doesn’t care. he eats one half a meal a day and doesn’t care, because the stomach rumbling reminds him of a monster, and he isn’t a monster, not when he’s up (monsters are supposed to live in the ground). nothing matters-- not his boyfriend’s concern, not his friends trying to sort it out, not the principal who received an incoherent email and is moving to call his parents,

nothing matters, not even his dead parents, because parents are in the ground and he is up.

part of him is coming down, during. part of him knows that he has to come down, that he can’t cut his hair for the third time that week, that he shouldn’t mix all the multivitamin gummies he has and try to take them all at the same time, but he tunes it out. doesn’t want it there. doesn’t want himself there.

it all hits when he comes down.

…

coming down is a lot more  _ like  _ than going up. it’s like icarus, plummeting towards the sea, like achilles sinking for all but his ankle. it’s like a dying bird, stoned halfway to hell, or like the entire sky longing to meet its lover for once, the grass, and taking the entire world with it. it’s like a lot of things, a lot of devastating things, and it swallows him up every time.

now, he is down. he feels heavy, an ache in his chest, his head hurts and his body hurts and he’s throwing up the pills in the bathroom again. and then he’s wishing he didn’t throw the pills up in the bathroom again because maybe he did want to die, and he can’t seem to count to ten without crying at three, and he doesn’t remember half of the things he sent, doesn’t know what got him up in the first place or what sent him spiralling.

so, he searches. opens up his phone and starts looking, finds the conversation between him and his friends, finds all the other messages, reads through them silently in a fucked up chronological order.

_ souda kazuichi:  _ Yeahh man she kinda :eyes: 

_ souda kazuichi:  _ You should probably calm down though lol 

_ kuzuryuu fuyuhiko:  _ none of that shit was fuckin japanese. r u ok

_ nanami chiaki: _ komaeda-kun? u might be hypomanic again, i think.

and then

_ hinata hajime:  _ Nagito, that’s really sweet…

_ hinata hajime:  _ but I don’t really understand what’s going on

_ hinata hajime:  _ are you alright? 

komaeda sighs through his nose (falls down, down, down), tries to type back, finds himself too heavy for it. too much to do, too much nothing, doesn’t do any of the nothings at all, and hinata must be so confused and so concerned but how does he fix that? all he wants is to tear his hair out in clumps and fail all his classes, sleep for 72 hours straight and get his meds re-adjusted, if not entirely taken off, because he’s too much of a suicidal fuck up to be trusted with that without having the risk of his death.

if he doesn’t reply, hinata might think he’s dead.

but some things stay the same, and komaeda can’t find it in himself to care.

so he tucks himself into bed with a fucked up melody, his entire body aching with the weight of his pain, compressing further against his heart so that maybe, maybe he’ll die. and the room still smells like vomit and artificial cleaner sprayed over, and his eyes burn when he closes them, and everything loses focus as he tries to sleep, please let him sleep, he’s so so tired and the entire world doesn’t want him-

-and in the morning, he wakes up, gets through another mediocre day, only for him to be in the air at 9 pm, in the ground by 11. 

**Author's Note:**

> been going thru it. hypomania is kinda fucked.
> 
> stay safe loves. xx


End file.
